Due to illness, I ha
ven’t been updating this as much as I’d like. But as I’ve been watching the fallout from the earthquake in Haiti, I’ve been reminded—as we all have—of the various disasters of the past decade. Last night’s celebrity-studded telethon reminded me of the tsunami in late 2004, and the images of the destruction are of course reminiscent of Sept. 11. But what has struck me about this situation, as with the others, is how we manage to rise to the occasion and take care of our fellow human beings. (No comment on Hurricane Katrina.)
We wouldn’t need to scramble in these kinds of situations if the pre-existing conditions were better for all involved, unfortunately, but that’s a different argument for a different time. Instead, I’d like to present something I started to write nearly 10 years ago as a memoir of sorts about the emotions I had around 9/11. Given the subject, the theme’s a little more “yay America!” when it comes to lauding recovery efforts, though the events of the past few weeks definitely show once again that humanity itself is pretty resilient. (This excellent piece on NPR’s “The Story” the other night proves that.)
This piece was also never finished. I apparently started getting into the nuances of patriotism vs. dissent, but didn’t complete the thought. So I’m just sticking to the relatively schmoopy parts here.
***
In the summer of 2001, I had a girl’s weekend with my best friend. We went on a road trip to Lake Tahoe, stayed in my cousin’s cabin for a night and went to see the Counting Crows perform at Caesar’s Palace on the South Shore. Looking back, I can remember a few moments that took away from the reverie of the trip, including the tricky navigation of the curves of Highway 89 along the lake’s western shore on a moonless night.
But what most made an impression was a comment by the opening act, Glen Phillips of Toad The Wet Sprocket. Of course, I can’t remember the context of what he said, only that it was part of the typical musician’s ad-lib before a song. He commented on the fall of the once-infallible Rome, and said something along the lines of “Who knows how long this American empire is going to last?” It sent shivers up my spine. At that point in time, the idea of our society falling seemed as fantastical as those apocalyptic visions illustrated in films such as The Terminator or Independence Day. My mind just wouldn’t go there.
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Allison, January 23rd 2010 |
Tags: family, personal, political, ponderings, school, the media, world events
Posted in Old Stories
While going through old files, I came across this presentation I wrote during my reporter days six or seven years ago. The thing is, it was a presentation I gave to a class of fifth graders.
Those who know me well also know that my mother is a California public school teacher. Starting from a fairly young age, I (along with my brother) was pressed into service to help with various tasks—shutting down her room for the summer, hanging up bulletin boards, setting up computers, etc. After I graduated from college, moved back to my hometown and started a full-time job, I wasn’t really around during the day when she might have needed me. But then, my mother decided that she wanted me—with all of the infinite wisdom that comes with being a reporter—to talk to kids about how difficult it is to write, even for those of us who are paid to do it. A lot of her students get discouraged that they don’t write perfectly on the first attempt, and she really wanted me to drive home the point that we all screw it up at some point.
So if you don’t mind, I’d like to share a bit of the speech I prepared for the occasion—given that I think most of the people who might be reading this are writers themselves. As far as I recall, I didn’t stray too much from these prepared remarks (which also included props and a transparency!)…and the kids were actually into it. They asked questions and everything. Given that I couldn’t ever imagine following my mother into teaching, that was kind of a big moment.
***
Even for those of us who are paid to be good writers and editors can’t get everything right on the first try. It’s just not possible. Writing is too hard to make it come out perfectly. Even what I’m saying right now didn’t come out the way I wanted it to the first time I wrote it. When you’re writing, you’re taking a ton of information and turning it around and trying to present it in a way that’s interesting and communicates what you want to say. It’s something that’ll get easier the more you do it, so if you guys only hear one thing I say today, this is it: KEEP WRITING. It doesn’t matter what about. If you want to write something about your dog, or your favorite basketball team, or the characters from your favorite comic book or cartoon, do it. If it interests you and you have something to say, write it down. It doesn’t matter if you think it won’t be good enough. I do that all the time when I’m writing, and the worst thing you can do is let that fear scare you.
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Allison, January 7th 2010 |
Tags: career, education, family, humor, personal, writing
Posted in On Writing
To round out 2009, I want to share two more poems—the subjects of which came to mind over the past few weeks while I was getting ready for the holidays and visiting my parents for Christmas. Not surprisingly, one good and one bad, as is fitting for this time of the year.
Wherever you are, I hope 2010 is your best one yet!
***
Eden
As usual, she began this creation
Behind schedule: a carefully planted
Plot of flannel and cotton,
Received just a little late,
A flowing checkerboard
Of rose and bluebell and lilac.
Golden pinwheels twirl sun spots
Skittering and dancing across its surface.
Cut and basted, stitched and batted -
She labored over this fabric,
Embossing it with daisies
Stemming from white thread.
At bedtime I slip under this garden
Of blooms. Even though I’m so far
From home, she still manages to
Keep me safe and warm.
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Allison, December 31st 2009 |
Tags: family, out of the box, personal
Posted in Poetry
Since I slacked on posting last week, I have a two-fer this week. And thankfully, for my convenience, they’re part of the same document.
The reason why is that they’re both columns I wrote as audition pieces for the editorial page of the DTH. Every semester, there would be writers, typically from the general student population and not from the DTH staff, who helmed a column one day each week. Most of them were your typical college writers, trying to push boundaries with lots of talk about sex and such. And at points, I thought about giving it a shot myself, just because. As a Californian going to school in North Carolina, I was a bit of an oddity there…or so my friends made it seem. So I thought I might have some interesting thoughts to share.
And here’s where I started.
***
Before I begin, there’s something I must let you all know.
I am in love with the pets.com sock puppet.
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Allison, December 9th 2009 |
Tags: bay area, daily tar heel, DTH, humor, personal, quirks, stereotypes, the south
Posted in Old Stories
I’m really not a creative writer. Assignments and deadlines are what make me tick, which is why I typically cover newsy things. But for one semester in college, I gave it a try. Michael McFee, a great poet in his own right, teaches poetry writing at Carolina, so I decided to take it. It was challenging, but enjoyable. I pretty much discovered that I don’t have the patience…or maybe even the artistic mind…to write poetry all that often. But for 16 weeks, I did, and I came up with some stuff that I like even now.
So these two poems seem appropriate to share today. The first was inspired by Thanksgiving travel during my college era, and the second by the woman who took me in for Thanksgiving all four of those years…and then some. Her 89th birthday would have been on Tuesday, and this is my first Thanksgiving without her.
(Oh, and a note: The first poem is a form known as a pantoum, in which the repetition is part of the design.)
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Allison, November 26th 2009 |
Tags: family, out of the box, personal, school, travel
Posted in Poetry
I believe in defying expectations.
This year, I celebrated my 25th birthday. I can almost hear what’s running through your head when you take in that statement—she’s a member of a lazy, coddled generation, glued to her cell phone and computer, updating her MySpace page five times a day instead of working at an actual job. Believe me, I’ve heard a number of your kind tell me so. And while some of that is true—I’m writing this essay on my laptop at a local café—the rest gives me a headache on a daily basis.
My parents—my mother especially—raised me to think for myself. After all, they were the same way. They graduated from high school in 1967, at the beginning of the Summer of Love. They weren’t hippies or protesters; they went to school and worked hard to make the world and their families better in their own way. My mother has spent the majority of the last 30 years as a resource specialist, a teacher who helps special needs and second-language students.
It was their mindset that prompted me to get started on my own story early. I worked semi-professional jobs as early as high school, when I was a gopher for a local architectural firm. That phase passed pretty quickly, and I ended up writing and interning for magazines while I was out of college for the summer. While my peers were happy partying every weekend, it was my responsibility to earn my own spending money, so I worked hard for it—and was loath to spend it.
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Allison, November 4th 2009 |
Tags: ageism, career, family, personal, school, spec, stereotypes, travel
Posted in Old Stories
How a Hollywood cynic began to believe that dreams really do come true [sic]
When it comes to the hordes who pack up their cars and move to Los Angele
s, I like to think that I don’t fit the cliché. A year ago, I decided to make a change and move out of the San Francisco Bay Area—and my parents’ comfortable suburban home. L.A. offered the same good food, the weather, the politics that I couldn’t stand to leave. Best of all, I didn’t have to change my license plates.
Really, it was just an exercise in laziness.
I carried the typical NorCal resident’s cynicism for anything Hollywood, and I came here with no desire to see my name in lights. I don’t have a screenplay to sell. Getting into the hottest club isn’t my ultimate goal in life. Somehow, I thought this would be evident soon enough; that I’d get a steady job and join the throngs of regular people sitting on the freeway on our ways to work. I’d put the same amount of thought into a place to live—after all, I’m the type who drives my car down Rodeo Drive even though it rattles and is missing a side mirror. Something nice and comfortable, no matter the ZIP code, would suit me just fine.
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Allison, October 28th 2009 |
Tags: bay area, los angeles, personal, ponderings, spec, stereotypes
Posted in Newer Essays
They said that it couldn’t be done. Or, rather, that it shouldn’t.
When my friend and I announced our plans to take a two-week trip to Rome and Cairo, the concerned voices of friends and family across the country all chimed in with opinions.
“You’re two young women traveling by yourselves. Two young American women,” they would say. “How on earth will you be safe over there?”
We weren’t worried. The friends we would be staying with in both locales were young American women themselves, each of whom had been studying in their respective cities for at least nine months. They knew how to conduct themselves; we figured we’d just follow their cues.
“But the Italian men will prey on you, and the Egyptians will just hate you,” the voices continued to say. We were instructed to learn the phrase “No, I will not marry you, and please take your hands off my behind” in Italian, and “I am a Canadian” in Arabic.
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Allison, October 21st 2009 |
Tags: cairo, personal, rome, spec, travel
Posted in Newer Essays
I’d always known that at least on a relative scale, my family was doing all right. My parents came from different economic backgrounds—my mother was the only daughter of a wealthy small-town doctor while my dad was one of five kids in a working-class neighborhood—but both were college graduates who worked hard to create the suburban enclave where my brother and I grew up. Those varied backgrounds sometimes clashed when it came to relatively small matters like after-school jobs, but we were never overly indulged. In contrast to some of my peers, I got a hand-me-down minivan when I turned 16 instead of a souped-up sports car, and my parents only grudgingly allowed me my own phone in my teenage years while friends of mine had their own home entertainment centers.
We also lived in a school district where the tax base made sending us to public school an easy decision. But when it mattered, my parents anted up. I decided late in my high school career that 18 years in Californian suburbia was enough for me. So, I applied to out-of-state public schools, and even though we didn’t qualify for financial aid, my parents managed to pay for every cent of tuition, housing, books—you name it. Thus, my protective bubble followed me to college, where I had everything taken care of for me. If I was hungry, I just went to the dining hall and my student ID would grant me entrance to the buffet lines. Plane tickets would arrive in the mail just when I needed them. And when the foreign experience of East Coast weather threatened my campus with its hurricane watches and empty grocery stores, I just snuggled closer to the cinder blocks that comprised the 10 floors of my freshman dorm.
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Allison, October 15th 2009 |
Tags: class issues, personal, political, ponderings, the south
Posted in Old Stories
